


In the Absence of Starsong

by gumbiecat



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Also has some character study in the middle, Don't Read This, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Specifically inspired by boy1dr, To paraphrase their tags:, crowley and space, so if you dont want to read that, this is about crowley getting his wings cut off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 06:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19351807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gumbiecat/pseuds/gumbiecat
Summary: Heaven was going to take Aziraphale's wings for his treason.But Crowley took his place.





	In the Absence of Starsong

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [should i tear my eyes out now (before i see too much)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285072) by [kagaymitaigay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagaymitaigay/pseuds/kagaymitaigay). 



Crowley doesn’t actually get scared until he sees the St. Andrew’s cross. 

They wouldn’t use a St. Andrew’s to burn him with hellfire. It wouldn’t make sense; the cross would just burn up. 

He tries to keep his face--well, Aziraphale’s face--calm as he starts to panic. He and Aziraphale planned for hellfire and holy water, but there’s no hellfire here in Heaven, so what is the angel facing now?

“Tie him,” says Gabriel, and Uriel fastens Crowley’s wrists to the boards and then says, “Wings out.” 

Crowley extends his wings, remembering at the last second to make them fluffy and pale like Aziraphale’s. “What are you doing?” he asks, trying not to let his voice shake as Uriel grabs his feathers and drags them into corporeality. (Aziraphale’s voice wouldn’t shake. Aziraphale is braver than Crowley.)

“Shut your stupid mouth,” says Gabriel, and Crowley doesn’t hear the rest of that sentence because he sees Sandalphon approaching with a flaming sword, _Aziraphale’s_ flaming sword, and he suddenly realizes what they’re doing.

“No,” he says, terror thick in his throat. “Please, no, don’t--” Not his _wings,_ he needs his wings to fly among the stars he made, and oh whoever he should pray to, if he’s here then _what are they doing to Aziraphale_ \--

“You should’ve thought of that earlier,” says Gabriel, taking the sword from Sandalphon. He grabs a handful of feathers and _slices_. 

Crowley bites his tongue so hard it bleeds, but he can’t help crying out anyway as the sword sears through feathers and flesh, and it’s taking everything he has to keep the right face, the right wings and feathers, they can’t see that it’s him they can’t know because if they know it’s him they’ll find Aziraphale and cut off his wings too, and--

Crowley will never see the red shining stars he made up close again and--

He grits his teeth, panting with the pain and the effort of disguise as his wings fall to the floor with two soft thumps.

“Untie him,” says Gabriel, and Uriel and Sandalphon spring to obey him. “So,” the Archangel continues, tilting Crowley’s false face up and smiling smugly, “did you learn your lesson?”

“Yes,” Crowley whispers. What he wants to say is _fuck you_ , but he can’t take much more without revealing his true face, and it’s not what Aziraphale would do. So he nods, and whispers, “yes,” again instead. 

“Good.” Gabriel slaps his arm like a particularly condescending boss talking to a subordinate. “Now get out of here and sin no more. Just a little reminder of the rules.”

Crowley manages another “yes” as Uriel unties him, and adds in a “sir,” for good measure. 

He steels himself, then glances at his wings. He feels a sick twist of relief when he sees that the feathers are still white and fluffy, excepting the ones at the base burned black and grey and scorched. If Aziraphale survives, it will be worth it. 

_If._

_Dear whoever, please._

Crowley must not look cowed enough, because before he can leave, Gabriel scowls, pushes him down, and kicks him, hard, in the stomach. “I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson,” he says. 

“I have,” Crowley gasps, trying not to retch. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” and he hates that it’s true. “Please--”

That does the trick. Gabriel turns and walks away, then twists back to shake a finger at the fallen demon. “Remember, no fraternizing.” 

“No fraternizing,” Crowley repeats, blood in his mouth, wishing he could hide behind his wings. 

 

***

 

There’s a note from Aziraphale waiting at the bookshop when Crowley lets himself in--they’d switched residences as well as faces, of course, so Aziraphale is at the flat. More importantly, he’s alive, and, if the gleeful tone of the note is anything to go by, unharmed. Crowley breathes a deep sigh of relief and collapses into his favorite of Aziraphale’s armchairs, the weight of his shoulders all wrong. 

He pulls his knees to his chest and weeps. 

He loves the stars so much. 

Loved. He loved the stars. He misses them, his creations, so bright and fiery. They burned with a passion that was neither of Heaven nor Hell but existed for itself. He’d barely had to will them into creation at all—they _wanted_ to be there and sprang to life at the smallest thought. The way his wings made no sound in great emptiness of the cosmos, the only sounds the voices of the angels and the songs of celestial bodies learning what they were. Crowley had loved to fly past where the other angels worked and soar alone, dipping and spinning and scattering galaxies with the tips of his primaries. 

He wishes he’d had one last chance to visit. Maybe he should’ve gone after all--not to run away, just to see them… he always thought he’d have another chance. 

The phone rings, and he doesn’t answer it. 

After a while, Crowley gets up, straightens Aziraphale’s jacket, and wipes his eyes. He misses his sunglasses. The phone rings again, and this time he picks up. Keeping his voice light, he agrees to meet Aziraphale in an hour, then hangs up and turns to the mirror that hadn’t existed until Crowley needed it. He has an hour to learn to walk like he used to, like he still has his wings, because there is no way in Heaven, Hell, Earth, or anywhere between or betwixt that Crowley will tell Aziraphale what’s happened to him. His angel is okay, and that’s the only thing that matters.

 

***

 

They meet in the park, and Crowley can’t help but feel a little weak with relief when he sees Aziraphale’s cocky grin on his own face. He keeps himself carefully steady, and makes sure not to let anything slip through when they swap faces. 

His shoulders ache. 

“I asked them for a rubber duck,” Aziraphale says gleefully, and then he pauses and looks at Crowley with a small frown. “Are you all right? You look—“

Hastily Crowley straightens his posture, brushing down the front of his jacket. He’s about to say that he’s fine, that he was just worried and now he’s relieved and of course everything is all right, but then he looks into Aziraphale’s eyes which hold six thousand years of concern and care and love, and he…

He can’t do it. 

He’s never been able to lie to Aziraphale. 

“They took my wings, angel,” he whispers, looking away. He’s grateful for his sunglasses; they make up, very slightly, for the wings he can’t wrap around himself. “There wasn’t any hellfire. They… Gabriel had your sword, and they… and I thought, if there’s no hellfire here, then what if there’s no holy water in Hell, and what were they doing to _you_ , and then it _hurt_ , it hurt so much, and I’ll never—I was so scared…”

The next thing he knows, he’s being pulled into the angel’s embrace. 

Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, and his great invisible wings surround them both, soft as the summer sky. 

“I’m sorry,” the angel whispers, his voice thick. “Crowley, I’m so sorry, if I’d known I never would have—“

“I would do it again,” Crowley says quietly. He’s already mourned his wings, but he closes his eyes and allows himself to lean into his angel’s shoulder. 

(When did he start thinking of Aziraphale, he wonders later, as _his angel_?)

“I never should have let this happen. I never should have sent you there.”

“You didn’t send me anywhere. If we hadn’t switched places, you’d be wingless and I’d be a puddle of goo floating in some holy water.” Crowley reaches up and cups Aziraphale’s face. “I meant what I said. I’d do it again.”

“I’ll take you to Alpha Centauri,” Aziraphale says, steel in his voice. “I’ll fly you there.”

“Angel—“

“I mean it. Wherever you want to go, I’ll take you. I’ll be your wings from now on, forever, if you’d like.” 

There are stars in Aziraphale’s eyes as he smiles sadly at Crowley, and they’re better than any Crowley could ever have made.

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by boy1dr's fic _should i tear my eyes out now (before i see too much)_. It's good and it hurt a lot and it made me think, what if the thing they wrote merged with canon so that it was Crowley instead? and then this happened.


End file.
